


Soft (Good Boy)

by Glass_Jacket



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Dysphoria, F/M, Oral Sex, Other, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Rogers, Tribadism, Vanginal Fingering, mention of strap-ons, possible internalized homophobia, possible internalized transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Glass_Jacket
Summary: Her softness is a trigger for Steve, who had spent years being acquainted with the concept f soft, curved, feminine, even though it wasn't who he was, really.  And even though heh isn't been like that for a very long time, Natasha is still able to make Steve question his identity.





	Soft (Good Boy)

**Author's Note:**

> There is a number of writers / readers in this fandom who adhere to the possibility of Steve being transgender. In an effort to get back on the horse after a few years of self discover, I took the reins and went with it. When it comes to intimacy with a trans partner, there are a lot of things to consider when it comes to preferred anatomical terms, and possible triggers. Any terms used herein and in later chapters when referring to Steve's anatomy are solely my perspective, so please respect that and keep an open mind.

Natasha is soft.

 

Not soft in the sentimental way, in a metaphorical way, but physically, she is soft.  She is round. She is curves and hills and valleys, not granite ledges, cut stone, cliffaces.  She is a red sky at night, crimson and vermillion, full lips, green eyes and grace, though she’d balk at the latter.  She smells like honey and verbena, and the cloves from her cigarettes, and tastes like defiance. She bites lips and throws punches, angles elbows into noses if motivated, but cries when she thinks no one will see her.

 

Her softness is a trigger for Steve, who had spent years being acquainted with the concept of soft, curved,  _ feminine _ , even though it wasn’t who he was, really.  And even though he hasn’t been like  _ that _ for a very long time, Natasha is still able to make Steve question his identity.  

 

He  _ likes _ rounded breasts pressed against his solid chest, but likes them brushing against like, too. He thinks he could like that if he wasn’t the man he was.  He thinks it would feel incredible in the moment. He likes the tilt of a woman’s mouth pressed to a woman’s body, gets hard when he sees tongues lapping at nipples and tipping the velvet. 

 

He’s not quite sure how to process this last part, when he feels so far removed and yet just over the line some days.  He shouldn’t be turned on by these last images; it’s not for his consumption in the broader sense. He’s a guy. Sure, he’s bisexual, but that doesn’t mean he should be lurking on sapphic ground.  

 

Nat reassures him it’s fine, that it isn’t the same as a cisgender male interloping on these rites, that perhaps there’s still a part of him that is tied to the feminine, and that other men should be so lucky.

 

“You’ve got the same equipment,” she sighs one night, arching her back up from the kitchen table as her thighs are hooked over Steve’s shoulders.  “You’ve got game.” Her fingers thread into his hair and hold him steady as she grinds into his mouth with a wicked purr. “Yeah, you know what you’re doing, baby boy, got the inside track.”  

 

Steve growls against her thigh before he licks her hot and wide.

 

Nat comes, wet, and hard.  “Good boy,” she pants as stars burst behind her closed eyelids.

 

He likes flared hips in his hands, the pert ass backing up into his lap, the dip of a curved waist, and the softness of pussy, the swell of the mound, the colour and texture of the flesh when it is split and bared to him, and the sugared brine of arousal that clings to his tongue and only flows faster the harder he works.  

 

He likes the firm, wet, hot clutch of muscle around his fingers, the twist of a feminine torso, and the pebbled rise of a clit hardening under his tongue or fingers, or maybe from those rare occasions where he’s permitted, and even encouraged to rut, to trib, to...what did Nat call it?  To  _ scissor _ .  

 

There’s other girls, and other boys, too, boys like him, and boys like all the others, but there’s nobody quite like Nat.  

 

She lets him  _ fuck _ her, sometimes begs him to, and it’s a tool of his choosing some days, and one of hers on others, but it’s always so good.  She’s soft, and she lets him be soft, and it’s always valid and  _ sacred _ .

 

“You treat me like glass,” she says one afternoon as the rain outside slips over the windows of her loft apartment.  “Like you know just how to make me shatter. LIke you know I might cut you.” She lights a clove cigarette and blows the steam off the tea he’s made in her kitchen in the late-day shadows. 

 

“You treat me like a peach,” she says a moment later, this time blowing smoke from the cigarette clamped between her teeth.  “Easy to eat, easy to bruise. Do you like pulling the pit out and getting your fingers and face wet?”

 

“Nasty,” Steve mutters from where he’s sprawled on his side, his pencil working to capture Natasha’s melancholia.  

 

“I want you to fuck me here,” she says, her burgundy-lacqured nails parting the delicate, gauzy blue chiffon of her dressing gown.  “Against the window. Put my back against it, so I can feel the cold and the rain.” She sets her tea aside, and grinds out the cigarette.

 

Steve’s already standing, his fingers reaching for the briefs that accommodate one of his many weapons of choice.

 

“Mm mm,” Natasha murmurs, shaking her dark copper waves.  “I don’t want your cock. I want your fingers. Your tongue.  Your slick and mine.” She puts her hands on her knees and spreads them as she arches her spine.

 

Steve groans, staring at her centre, still flushed pink from their previous game, and so wet.  He starts with his fingers. Switches to his tongue, just like she asked, until she’s writhing and cursing, and pulling him up by his shoulders gasping, “Now, Steve.  Now. Like always.”

 

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Steve’s a master strategist, and soon enough Natasha’s open cunt is pressed against his, legs looped and threaded, hips rocking as she clutches the back of Steve’s neck.  

 

“You’re so soft, baby,” Steve murmurs, sweeping his thumb between the place where they meet.  “And so wet.” His thumb comes up and sweeps it over Natasha’s lips before he leans in to kiss her.

 

His mouth drops to her shoulder, and further still, his hands at her back to pull her up, his neck at an odd angle.  But his tongue finds her pale pink nipple, and the stiffness of it sets him off and makes him whine. He swears she gets wetter; he does, too, and her nails dig into his neck as he bites softly, and then sucks.

 

“ ‘mon,” he murmurs as his hands cup her ass and pull her close.  “C’mon, and come, Nat, please.” 

 

She does, but only because she wants to.

 

And maybe because Steve always follows, and it’s soft.

  
~


End file.
